


I've Got You

by dollylux



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e02 Mamma Mia, Protective Dean Winchester, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: They rescue Sam from Toni's clutches, and big brother takes over.





	I've Got You

Dean waits for the British fucks to leave before he even moves, his ears trained for the sound of a vehicle starting, for tires on gravel. 

When he hears it, he completely falters.

“Sammy,” he breathes, turning to Sam and stepping in close to him, hands going up to cup his face as his eyes narrow, looking for each and every hurt. “Goddamnit, little brother. You are one tough son-of-a-bitch to find.”

“Hey,” Mom says mildly for the insult.

“Sorry,” Sam says with the vaguest hint of a laugh, going limp like he always does under Dean’s touch, in Dean’s care. “Guess that carrier pigeon got lost.”

Dean doesn’t smile, but the fact that Sam can even make a joke calm him some, slows down the adrenaline pumping wild and reckless through his veins. Sam is bleeding from several places, his whole body trembling where it’s all but pressed against Dean’s, exhaustion making him curl in on himself, shrinking down to something only slightly smaller physically but it makes him look like a teenager to Dean, like that little five-foot-nothing kid he used to worry about every second of every day.

Some things really do never change.

“Can you walk?” The flat pad of his thumb drags under the slice on Sam’s high cheek, coming away with blood and grime and sweat that he salivates to lick off.

“I, um… m-my foot is kind of fucked.” Sam looks down and Dean follows his gaze down to a badly bandaged foot with blood soaking through the gauze, and the sight of it turns his stomach, narrowing down his primal instinct to murder anyone who touches his brother flare up into something sharp and fiery, something useless now that the fucking bitch who did this is gone. 

He leans into Sam, trying to get his bearings, and he finds himself wrapping his arms around Sam’s neck and pushing up onto his toes, pulling Sam’s face down to tuck against his neck. He can feel the blood from the gashes on Sam’s chest seeping into his own clothes, can feel the tension in him from the pain, but Sam tightens his arms around Dean’s waist so hard it steals his breath.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, bringing a hand up to cup the back of Sam’s filthy hair, smoothing it down and absently working at the tangles there. “I’m here.”

“Sam, perhaps I can--”

Dean tenses at the sound of Castiel’s voice so close, and he presses in harder against Sam, trying to shield his bigger body as much as he can as he turns him away from Cass before he can touch him, heal him.

“Don’t you touch him,” Dean snarls, his heart-rate kicking up again, the need to inflict violence on _someone_ making him shake as he clutches at his little brother. “Not yet. Help me get him to the car.”

Cass steps back in shock, and Dean can feel how stunned Mom is by his outburst, by how insane he probably looks wrapped around Sammy like this. He’s too keyed up right now to care, too distracted to give a fuck what he looks like right now: Sam is all that matters.

There are only a few steps to the cellar door and then out into the obliviously bright early evening. Mom trails along behind as Cass and Dean help Sam walk to the car, Dean’s fingers snagged in Sam’s belt loops to hold onto him better.

Sam sighs when he finally falls into the backseat and stretches out there with a pained groan. Dean climbs in right after him, pulling Sam’s feet into his lap and lighting his hands so gently on his foot.

“What can I do?” Mom asks, hovering outside the open door with a busted lip, looking like she wants to help but she’s out of her element now that Dean has Sam back.

“First aid kit,” Dean replies, unwrapping the gauze as quick as he can, hesitating before he pulls it back for the final reveal. He tugs his own jacket off in the tight space and hands it over to Sam in a wad. “Put this behind your head. Cass, grab a bottle of water from the front seat.”

Everybody falls quiet as they do what Dean says, and Cass slides into the front to hand the water back and squint at Dean like he’s trying to do mental math.

“Dean, I can fix this. In an instant. There’s no need for--”

“ _I_ need it,” Dean interrupts, his cheeks hot for the truth in it. “He needs it. We just… this is what we fuckin’ do, okay? Just… just let me do it.”

He glares fiercely at the annoying concern on Cass’ face, snatching the bottle of water from him and unscrewing the cap before handing it to Sam.

“Drink up, Sammy. All of it.”

“First aid kit,” Mom announces, leaning into the car a little and handing one of Dad’s old tackle boxes to Dean. He props it on Sam’s shins and opens it with his left hand, digging through for fresh gauze. He feels the sink of the car when Mom’s slight weight settles into the driver’s seat, everyone in the car watching Dean work now, quiet with unease or reverence or both. 

Sam hands Dean the bottle with one more splash of water left in it, and he doesn’t do anything but suck in a sharp breath when Dean pours it on the bloody gauze, wetting it so he can take it off without ripping up Sam’s skin.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sammy,” he breathes, struck uncharacteristically speechless at the sight of his brother’s ruined foot. “What the fuck happened? What did that cunt do to you?”

He hears Mom draw a breath to instinctively scold him, but she doesn’t say a word.

“Blowtorch,” Sam says, his voice tight, an arm slung over his eyes. “It wasn’t her. It was, ah. Some other lady. Some kind of supernatural bodyguard.”

“The woman from the other day,” Cass says, and Dean grits his teeth at the reminder of her.

“Wish I’d known,” Mom says. “I’d have killed her slower.”

Sam pulls his arm back and looks up at her like he just now remembered that she’s here, and the tears in his eyes quietly shatter Dean’s heart.

“I’ll explain later, babe,” he says quietly, rubbing so careful at the arch of Sam’s foot as he unscrews the bottle of malt liquor with the other. “Right now I’m gonna need you to take a deep breath ‘cause this is gonna hurt.”

He doesn’t give Sam time to respond, just waits until he sucks in a breath and he pours the 100 proof rotgut on Sam’s foot, biting hard into his bottom lip when he feels Sam’s toes curl down around the hand he still has cupped around the sole of it.

“ _Fuck_!” Sam sobs, reaching down for Dean’s arm and holding onto it so tight Dean can feel the stuttered throb of his circulation being cut off.

“Good boy,” Dean murmurs, using a clean cloth to dab at it, drying it. “Shh, that was good, Sammy. Almost done, little brother.”

He squeezes a gob of Neosporin on the long, deep burns and dabs it in with as light of a touch as he possesses, thumb stroking up and down Sam’s arch the whole time. The new gauze goes on a little looser, and Dean swears he can smell Sam’s tears when he fastens it closed with medical tape.

“All done,” he announces, dropping everything back in Dad’s kit and pushing it onto the floor. “I’ve got you. I’m right here, Sammy. You hear me?”

Sam nods, his chin trembling even as he holds his jaw tight, as still as he can. He reaches down wordlessly for Dean’s hand and he gets it without hesitation. Dean closes his eyes and brings Sam’s hand up to his face, to the shadowed scruff on his cheek, to the dark skin under his sleepless eyes. He turns his face into Sam’s palm and nuzzles it, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin while Sam’s fingers come to life, pressing in and stroking, weak and tired but grateful. So grateful.

“Right here,” Dean whispers against Sam’s heartline, pressing a kiss to the meat of his palm, to the calloused, filthy skin.

“I thought you were dead,” Sam finally says, the words shaking so hard they come out like a chatter, little-boy fear quietening them. “I was… I was in that basement and I didn’t care what happened, what they did to me because I thought--Dean. Dean, I thought--”

“Well, I’m not. And neither are you. For once. We’re okay. Aren’t we? Aren’t we, Sammy?” He tucks his cheek into the cup Sam’s hand makes and looks down at him with a wet-eyed, broken smile, one made for guys who are grateful for very, very basic things. Sam meets his eyes and gives him an identical smile, making himself nod as they fall into each other’s gaze, sinking in there and not coming out again. 

“We’re okay,” Sam echoes, and it comes out on a sigh. His eyes fall half-mast then, his hand softening on Dean’s cheek. He’s falling asleep right here in the hot car with three pairs of eyes on him but he’s only aware of one.

“Sleep,” Dean whispers, stroking the back of Sam’s hand and up and down the long line of his foot. “We’ll be home when you wake up.”

An almost imperceptible nod then, and Sam finally closes his eyes all the way. Dean lowers Sam’s hand until they’re tangled in his lap, on top of dirty, bloody denim. He takes his hand off of Sam’s foot long enough to reach into his back pocket, grabbing the keys and passing them up to Mom.

“Why don’t you take the first shift?” he asks her, not managing to meet her eyes. “I’ll drive in a few. Just want to get him to sleep.”

“Sure,” Mom says, hesitant and loaded with questions that Dean wouldn’t be ready to answer in a goddamn decade. He looks up to find Cass watching them still as Mom starts up the car, like he’s waiting for permission. Dean nods, just once and very slight.

“And make sure he sleeps awhile, too,” he says.

Cass nods, reaching over the benchseat and touching two fingers with surprising gentleness to Sam’s arm. Dean can’t see any of the wounds but it’s a comfort to know they’re gone, that Sam isn’t hurting anymore, that he got him back. He’s safe again.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbles, resting his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes as he curls a hand under Sam’s foot again, a strange place to touch him, to hold him, but it’s perfect right now, just what he needs.

He swallows, thick and dry, fighting the relieved tears that come rushing up when the comforting rumble of the engine thrums under them as they pull back out onto the road. He can feel Mom’s eyes on him in the rearview, lingering and curious and more than a little awed at the intensity she’d just seen between her sons.

Dean doesn’t have to be a fucking psychic to know that.

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he tells himself, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, a thumb rubbing across Sam’s big, bony knuckles, the veiny back of his hand. _Not right now. Nothing matters but him._

**Author's Note:**

> (I've got comments moderated and I have notifs for comments turned off at the moment because there's someone harassing me incessantly and they will not stop. Until AO3 finishes their investigation and bans them, it's gonna stay that way, I think. Please don't let that deter you from leaving comments, if you wish.)
> 
> ♥v


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